Poveda de la Sierra

The petrol gauge hovers at a quarter tank as the GU-186 bends skywards through holm oak and juniper. Thirty-five kilometres back, the last filling station glowed fluorescent beside the A-2; ahead, only stone houses glued to a limestone ridge announce Poveda de la Sierra. At 1,100 m the air thins and the asphalt narrows, but the village—population 170, two guesthouses, one bar—keeps its back turned to the road, facing instead the knife-cut gorge that splits the plateau.

A Village That Forgot to Shout

No souvenir stalls, no multilingual menus, not even a brown heritage sign. The plaza is simply a slab of concrete with a stone cross, two benches and a drinking fountain that gushes mountain-cold. Houses are shuttered against the wind; wood piles reach first-floor windows, insurance against winter snow that can cut the road for days. Electricity cables still run overhead, and the evening silence is so complete that the click of a hiking pole carries from one end of the village to the other.

Visitors expecting whitewashed prettiness leave disappointed. Poveda’s stone is the colour of wet cardboard, its streets steep enough to test calf muscles, its balconies glassed-in for warmth rather than ornament. What the place offers instead is immediacy: step beyond the last lamppost and you are in the Alto Tajo Natural Park, a bruised landscape of limestone cliffs, griffon vultures and rivers that still taste of minerals.

The Gorge That Pays the Bills

Five minutes downhill, a dirt track ends at the Salto de Poveda, an abandoned hydro dam now reduced to a 25-m ribbon of water. In May, when the Gallo river still carries snowmelt, the pool below is deep enough for a bracing swim. British canyoners discovered the spot a decade ago and now run commercial descents of the neighbouring Poyatos gorge—abseils of 30 m beside waterfalls, finishing with a jump into the same pool. Groups meet at the riverside picnic tables at 09:00; if fewer than four names appear on the online list the night before, the guide cancels and you are free to walk the same route on foot, ignoring the ropes.

The signed path through the Barranco de la Hoz is less dramatic but easier to reach. Wooden walkways cling to vertical walls where the river has sawn a slit only a few metres wide; sunlight penetrates only at midday, turning the water bottle-green. Allow ninety minutes there and back from the last cottage—add another hour if you stop to photograph the rock overhang nicknamed “the ogre’s tongue” by a Sheffield climbing club.

When the Sun Drops, the Sky Does the Talking

Light pollution maps show a solid black blob over this corner of Guadalajara province. On moonless nights the Milky Way stretches from the wind turbine ridge in the west to the honey-coloured bulk of Molina de Aragón in the east. Bring a head-torch with a red filter—astro-touristers from London’s urban glare have had their night vision ruined by an over-enthusiastic phone screen.

August’s Perseids are the village’s busiest evening; even then no more than thirty people lie on the football pitch, sharing thermoses of coffee and pretending the meteors are fireworks. By 01:00 the temperature has fallen to 12 °C; jumpers appear and someone usually produces a packet of custard creams brought back from a UK visit.

Food That Apologises to No One

Lunch starts at 14:00, full stop. Casa Parri, the only restaurant, serves a chuletón weighing 1.2 kg—order one between two unless you are a professional rugby front row. The meat arrives sizzling on a cast-iron plate, salt crystals sparkling like frost; chips come separately because anything else would be an afterthought. Vegetarians get a plate of grilled pimientos and a sincere apology—there is no menu del día alternative, and the chef does not do substitutions.

Breakfast is simpler: coffee from a Nespresso capsule (the nearest supplier is in Trillo, 40 km away) and toasted mollete rolls smeared with local honey. If the colmado is shut—which happens on Sunday, Monday afternoon, or whenever the owner drives to Guadalajara for dialysis—then supplies run to tinned tuna and the last of yesterday’s bread. Plan accordingly.

Getting Stuck Is Part of the Deal

The GU-186 is perfectly asphalted but single-track for the final 12 km; passing places are signed “SALVAMENTO” and locals use them without slowing down. In March 2022 a Birmingham family met a tractor towing a hay baler at a blind bend; both vehicles reversed half a kilometre while the children counted 47 eagle kites overhead. Snow arrives unpredictably between December and March; if the white stuff is forecast, the Guardia Civil close the pass at Beteta and the village spends a week drinking brandy and playing cards.

Mobile signal is a lottery. Vodafone UK roams onto Movistar, but only if you stand in the plaza and face north-east. WhatsApp voice messages arrive in clumps at 23:00 when some distant mast finally remembers the village exists. The visitor centre in Molina has Wi-Fi—35 km away—so finish your internet business before you leave the motorway.

Leave the Car, Take the Pine Needles

Three way-marked trails start from the upper fountain. The Ruta de los Pilons follows old water channels to a string of stone cisterns where shepherds once washed wool; orange way-marks lead east to the spring of the Gallo, a shallow cave dripping even in July. Serious walkers link these paths into a 22-km loop that drops to the river, climbs through abandoned terraces of almond and cherry, and re-enters the village from the south-west. The ascent gains 600 m—think Kinder Scout without the crowds or the tea van—and in April the hillside smells of thyme and damp limestone.

Mountain-bikers arrive with full-suspension bikes and leave humbled: the limestone is slippery as marble and the gradients reach 18%. The village’s only bike pump lives behind the church; Father Jesús will lend it after mass if you promise not to swear while reinflating.

What You Will Not Find

Gift shops, ice-cream parlours, yoga retreats, cash machines, public transport, evening entertainment beyond the bar’s 1990s fruit machine. The nearest hospital is 70 minutes away in Sigüenza; the chemist opens Saturday morning only. If these absences feel like shortcomings, stay in Albarracín and day-trip. Poveda caters to people who would rather hear a nightjar than a nightclub.

Last Orders

Check-out time at the guesthouses is 12:00, but no one will hurry you. The owner walks you to the car, points at the petrol gauge and repeats the local mantra: “lento y con espacio”—slow and with space. Roll down the window and the temperature has already risen five degrees since dawn; by the time the gorge disappears in the rear-view mirror, the only reminder is limestone dust on your boots and the faint smell of woodsmoke in your hair.